Strange Light
by Caela Illu
Summary: Neria Surana is adept at finding profound things in the most unexpected places. She does not know it, but after losing so much and saving so many, there will come one who is strong enough to save her as well. A story of Neria and Nathaniel.
1. Chapter 1

**Strange Light**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any of the lore and characters and settings in this story. They all belong to BioWare and are found in the Dragon Age Universe.

Summary: Neria Surana is adept at finding profound things in the most unexpected places. She does not know it, but all she lost will be but memories, and that after saving so many, there will come one who is strong enough to save her as well.

* * *

The view at the top of the Vigil's battlements wasn't as breathtaking as the view from the top of the tower, but if she closed her eyes she could not tell any difference between her first home and her new one. There was still nothing beneath her feet, the stone was as coarse and unforgiving to her thighs, and no one seemed to notice what she was doing.

Neria Surana leaned back and swung her legs up and down, her hands supporting her from behind. She stretched languidly, and leaned over her own precarious seat in front of the ballista to observe the business of the Keep below.

She was listening to Master Wade's incessant complaining and Herren's alternate scoldings and placations while she watched the soldiers perform their drills. It was a pleasant day, and the wind blew her blood red hair into her eyes and away from her face and in all other directions that after a time she just stopped it from getting into her mouth.

Her hand still involuntarily went to her side as if to pet something, and for more times than she could count, she felt nothing and missed the texture of mabari fur. A small smile quirked her lips, and she closed her eyes and said a silent prayer to Andraste for her faithful warhound.

"Neria…" she heard a voice say softly behind her, and she turned back to see Nathaniel Howe—no, just Nathaniel, call out to her, almost cautiously.

"Hm? What is it, Nathaniel?" she hummed, and looked back down towards the denizens of the Keep, thoughts of soft mabari fur, wagging tails and friends long gone pushed to the back of her mind.

A delay in response made her think she only imagined him there, so she looked back again, but indeed he stood there, looking rather distressed. He wore light armor, but his weapon was nowhere in sight. He looked as if he wanted to step forward or reach out to her, she wasn't sure.

"What's the matter, Nathaniel?" she made a puzzled face and turned around quickly and hopped off the edge. The look on his face immediately changed, and he looked relieved, if nothing else.

She approached him and touched his shoulder, looking up at him worriedly.

"It's just…you're…sitting there again." He rubbed the spot between his brows with his fingers. This she always saw him do whenever something distressed him rather gravely.

"And…? Is there something wrong with sitting there?" she replied, smiling up at him sweetly.

"Dear Maker..no, there's nothing wrong with it at all. Just…be careful, when you're sitting there." He let out a long-suffering sigh.

She giggled softly at this. He seemed very old to her whenever he did that.

"Of course, Nathaniel. You shouldn't worry at all." She reached up to pat his cheek affectionately, albeit dismissively, and walked past him towards the interior of the Keep.

She heard another sigh from behind her, and this made her smile again.

"Was there something you needed?" she looked back, her hand already on the handle of the door.

"Varel said you had messages. He put them in your study."

"Thank you for telling me. You didn't have to do it yourself. Next time ask one of the guards." She had closed the door even before he could reply.

* * *

She was…melancholic again.

Her eyes shone with a strange light, so unlike the strong, level gaze she had for each of them every time they went into battle, or the amused twinkle whenever she heard them bantering between themselves.

Before, even as a new Warden, he had identified her as the woman who killed his father. But now, he saw her as the woman who gave him a chance to be something greater than he had ever dreamed.

He had returned to Amaranthine thristing for her blood, her death on his hands, damn the consequences, he told himself back then. He had nothing else to lose.

Instead, she looked up at him with her large, blue eyes, within their depths some sort of apology. Then she Conscripted him and within the space of a few weeks, gave him back his sister, his dignity and the chance to find the truth for himself.

And if all that she had done for him wasn't enough, she made him her second in command.

Of course, there weren't any real ranks, in the Fereldan Wardens at least, besides her own position as Commander. But she had insisted that everyone knew she deferred to him and that he was in charge in her absence. It honored and embarrassed him immensely.

That she could place so much trust in a man who had admitted to planning her murder astounded him.

He certainly wouldn't have done it, if he was in her place. In fact, he would have banished her from the arling and had her hunted down by some assassin friends of his for good measure. Ah, such a worthwhile man he used to be.

Having served as her fellow Grey Warden for the past year, he had witnessed her make decisions which he could only call foolhardy and reckless, his Conscription included.

And even when he made no attempt to hide disdain, she never failed to hide her determination either.

But when she decided to save Amaranthine herself with nothing but 3 other Wardens and a handful of soldiers, he didn't bother looking disdained. He stopped short of pleading with her on his knees.

But she smiled at him, and she seemed far too young and far too beautiful to be involved in anything concerning the darkspawn. She laid her head on his chest and said in a playful tone, "You're in charge. I want at least the larder intact when I get back."

He could only gape like a fool and stare dumbly after her as she exited the Main Hall. She even deigned to wave farewell to him from the steps.

As if she was going on a bloody holiday, and not to a city overrun by talking and insectile darkspawn.

Beside him, Anders clucked his tongue and shook his head in amusement. "You know, if she wasn't so small people would take her more seriously."

"She's an elf, Anders. They're all small."

"Yes, I know. Still, the way she stares nobles down sometimes, I wonder if she was half qunari." Then the blond mage turned to him and clapped his back. "So, my worthy lieutenant, let's not let our half qunari, half witch Commander down, shall we? I happen to like seeing nobles wet their drawers."

A few hours later, when the scouts returned with news of a darkspawn army on the march and none of her or the other Wardens, he had told himself, "The larder. At least the larder."

When it was all over, they did manage to save the larder, and little else.

She had come up to him, her face pale, her eyes sunken he armor torn, bloodied and gaping to reveal wounds half-healed or horribly scarred, and patted his cheek much like she had just done and rested her head on his chest again, a moment longer than she previously had.

The wave of relief that had washed over him at the simple gesture was so immense he had forgotten himself and stroked the back of her head involuntarily. She had looked up at him then with her blue eyes and smiled at him with the light of the Maker. It took his breath away and he had to take a step back.

She had looked curiously at him then, but she was immediately caught up in a bear hug from Anders, who then set her down. The two mages exchanged the biggest grins he had ever seen, after which she was screamed at for such deplorable healing skills.

Throughout his whole tirade, Anders never let go of her hand, and neither did she, but she glanced sideways at him, and the way she smiled at him reminded him of the feeling when he shot his first arrow right on the target. This time, the smile reached her eyes, and if only she would smile like that more, he can forgive himself for ever doubting her.

At that moment he realized that more than being Conscripted, he was saved.

More than being a Warden, he was her friend.

It had been many months since then, and without the pressing urgency of the Architect and the Mother and all the nonsense of talking darkspawn, he found himself understanding less and less about his Commander. It was as if without a darkspawn threat, she became less and less the Hero of Ferelden he spent at least once a day I complete awe of and more a strange, sweet, kind elven girl whose smile graced everyone but rarely reached her own eyes.

And when he noticed that she liked to sit several stories above the ground with a goodly portion of her tiny body dangling over the ledge, her eyes the saddest he had ever seen, he thought it might be time he became to her what she was to him.

He thought he might be the one to save her this time.

* * *

As Neria read the letter, she felt the ground pulled from beneath her feet.

Her hand shook, and she laid the thin parchment down gently on her desk and began to breathe in great, gasping sobs.

Her hand reached down to stroke fur that wasn't there, and the loss was so sharp at that moment that she had to sit down and..and…

There was nothing she could do. There were no words for this, except for those written in Irving's flowing, shaky script.

She felt the breath stolen from her, and it was something she had felt before. This pained gasping, this horrible constriction for air that was all around her but she could not seem to take in…a memory of golden armor walking up a raised dais, or the same armor turning away from her, with all the words and the love in her throat unsaid and undying.

_It does not mean I do not love you. It is not about you or me. Not this. It is about duty. It is about being a Warden._

Then duty had been shoved in her face as well, and the Taint flowing through her veins and the barren organ beneath the stomach became her undoing. It was fitting, she had thought in retrospect, but hurt no less.

Then, there had been small reprieves, sometimes found in the most unexpected of places. She found it in the harsh grinding of living stone, in the sound of Antivan, flirtatious but tender, cautious and sincere for the first time, in the sound of Orlesian tales and the quiet of plaited hair, in the distinctly Fereldan smell of fur and saliva, in the cheap swill and manic dwarven cursing of a fellow redhead, in the silence of rustling grimoire pages and new forms learned and failed, and most curiously…

She found understanding and kindness in the cold blue eyes of an old general and his breathless thanks atop Fort Drakon, light spilling from his last act of atonement.

All these, when put together, made a mosaic that replaced the useless pieces of her heart. They could not all replace what was sundered by her Warden decision, but it was enough to keep her intact and functioning.

A man who committed regicide became her brother for the sake of duty, and the first Grey Warden on the throne of Ferelden discarded her for the same reason.

She was wrong. A lesson she had to learn again and again. Thinking that for a mage, happiness would be freely given, even if she put her life on the line in a day more times than a whole town goes to the slop bucket.

She thought the empty place by the campfire was payment enough, or the absence of happy barks, or the sleepless, cold nights that would never end, or the loss of a brother whose eyes held more despair than anyone she's ever known, his scowl and harsh voice testaments to the bitterness taken root deeper than a thaig inside him. For the chance to unite Ferelden and stop the Blight, she paid with what she thought was enough happiness for her lifetime.

Apparently, she wasn't done paying.

Her breathing calmed somewhat, after a few minutes, and she was able to read the missive again.

_Dearest Neria,_

_It is with utmost regret that I tell you of the passing of one of our brethren, and as I know, someone very close to you._

_Wynne has gone to the Maker's side._

_She has left things to be said and given, and it would help me handle my own grief if you would come to the Circle to see her off._

_We will wait for you._

_Irving._

She covered her eyes with her hand, and images of Wynne passed beneath her lids. She had just seen the Senior Enchanter a year ago in Amaranthine, asking her for a favor. Had the latter known her time was almost up? Why had she not said anything?

The feeling of Wynne's hand in hers as she watched a surrendered dream walk up to become the King of Ferelden became a memory burned into her skin. It was the only thing that had kept her standing throughout the whole ordeal when all she wanted was to be in her bunk in the Circle Tower.

She bit her lip, stopping just short of drawing blood. She leaned forward on her desk and rested her head on her arms. No tears came, and she supposed none would until she arrived at the Tower, most probably.

She squeezed her eyes shut and screwed her face up in the most difficult grimace she could manage.

_Let it all be a dream. I am in thrall, in thrall the in the arms of a demon who feeds off my grief. _

But when she opened her eyes the letter lay before her gaze and Irving's words were unchanged.

That night, Neria prayed for dreamless sleep, and that no more payment would be exacted.

* * *

~end of Chapter I

Thank you so much for reading. I'm looking for a beta, so please leave me a message if you're interested. Please review if you have something to say about my work.


	2. Chapter 2

**Strange Light**

_Disclaimer: characters, lore and settings all belong to BioWare._

**Chapter II**

* * *

Varel had never seen the Commander look so…

Haunted.

It was common knowledge within the Keep that the Commander worked hard, worked her Wardens hard and herself even harder. That she had never complained to him once told him just how much work she was used to. Perhaps she had been trained well back in the Circle.

But the dark circles under her eyes spoke volumes, and the customary brilliant smile that always greeted him in the mornings had become a sad attempt.

She seemed so small and young at that moment, a vast desk before her piled with maps and books. The Warden severity was gone, even the just, demanding Arlessa. Though he was sure whatever she was doing at her desk was for both functions, she looked like someone's daughter, studying at her father's desk, no sleep had at all.

The seneschal approached the desk, and she set down her quill and parchment. He looked down at her tiny form and thought her even more harrowed up close, her complexion pale and sallow, her hair unkempt.

More than once, and certainly at that very second, Varel had felt…paternal towards his Commander. It would not be an outrageous guess to suppose that he was twice or even thrice her age. Long had he wondered how she ever brought that side of him out, no one ever had, and he had been seneschal to nobles barely out of their teenage years.

Yet here was a woman—no, a girl-whose deeds belied her slight form, testaments to the controlled, vicious strength within her. Even if he knew she could best him with her hands tied behind her back, there were times when he wanted to see her dress up in a resplendent gown, sit at a window, be waited on hand and foot, and have not a care in the world.

After defeating several dragons and countless other monsters for the good of Ferelden, he thought she deserved even more.

"I've finished replying to most of my correspondence, please see to it that the messengers are sent out today. The disbursements for the Wardens have been approved, with minor changes noted at the bottom of the accounts. Please advise Mistress Woolsey to hand them out as soon as possible. Also, I have drafted a formal deference of power for the Keep and the Arling. Please have a look when you have time, Varel."

He found himself smiling despite his worry for her. He collected her papers in a pile on the side of the desk, minding only his hands. When the organizing was done, he looked to see her staring out the window, her chin resting on her palm.

Truly, he had never seen her as sad as this.

He laid a hand on her shoulder, as soft as he could. She turned to him suddenly, eyes wide and watery.

He offered her a comforting smile. It wasn't even noon and she had finished everything he would have asked her to do for the day. The poor girl was too efficient for him.

If he had a daughter, he would have very much liked her to be just like Neria.

"Yes, Commander." Then he knelt at the side of her chair, and he saw surprise bloom on her face. His hand reached up to touch the arm of the chair. He spoke softly, "But is there anything at all…that I can do for you?"

He saw that the gesture unbalanced her, but an impossibly wide, beautiful smile was his answer, and although the tears that suddenly streamed down her cheek were large and many, she had never looked so breathtaking to him.

Her small, small hand had come up to cover his own, and they stayed like that for a long time, her touch becoming a desperate grip on his fingers, her sobs uncontrollable yet quiet, his legs soon asleep.

But Varel did not mind at all, and he let his Arlessa cry into their grasping hands.

* * *

"Hurr."

Nathaniel was busy adjusting a straw dummy he was currently using for target practice, covering it with more leaves as to give it camouflage. He heard and felt Oghren walk up behind him, even without his skills, the dwarf wore heavy plate and clanked about like a pot peddler.

"What is it, Oghren?" he turned around and regarded the smaller man whose legs were almost as wide as his hip. There was something different about the berserker, he thought, seeing something strange in the dwarf's eyes.

"I wanna ask yer a favor, Howe." Oghren grunted out, his voice low.

"Does it involve ale? I'm sorry I don't think I will be much help—"

"No, there's no ale…I think…and its not for me!" the dwarf said, his hands shaking in negation.

"Oh." Nathaniel relaxed and crossed his arms over his chest, an automatic gesture. "Then how may I be of service?"

"Neria. The Commander, she.." he began, his eyes on Nathaniel's boots, scratching the back of his head.

"Neri—The Commander and I are leaving later and…" Oghren continued, but Nathaniel did not let him finish.

"Leaving? Where?" At this, the bowsman bent down closer. Oghren now had his full attention.

"For Kinloch Hold."

Varel had suddenly come up behind the two Wardens, and Nathaniel was surprised that he did not sense the seneschal's approach. He was completely intent on listening to Oghren.

"The Circle? Why? Is she being summoned?" at this Nathaniel tensed. Having the Commander summoned back to the Circle did not sit well with him. At the back of his mind, a stray thought of the Commander leashed to the Chantry and the Circle made his stomach turn. She was the Warden Commander and an Arlessa now, she should not have to answer to anyone.

"In a fashion. She is requested to attend a funeral." Varel replied evenly, easily seeing Nathaniel relax. A small smile quirked the gray-haired man's lips, and an idea formed in his mind.

"Yeah. 'Bout that funeral…she's asking me to come with her and I'm not entirely sure…" the dwarf piped up again, looking sheepish and a bit ashamed. "…sure I want to."

Nathaniel turned back to Varel. "Whose funeral is it? A former mentor?"

The seneschal nodded, "and a companion during the Blight. Wynne was her name." he glanced around them, and lowering his voice, continued, "From what I understand, the Commander considered her a mother."

Nathaniel's eyes flicked up to the windows of Neria's rooms. "When did she receive the summons?"

"She read them only yesterday evening." At Varel's reply, the Howe's brows furrowed and he immediately wanted to go up and see how she was taking the news. He had remembered how he felt when he lost Adria. It surely wasn't as gruesome as this Wynne's death, but losing a mother figure always left wound that took too long to heal, if at all.

"Then that means you've fought with her yourself, didn't you, Oghren? Why don't you want to go?" Nathaniel looked pointedly at the embarrassed berserker, who seemed nothing but a docile lamb at the moment.

"I'm…I'm not good with good byes! She was a grand old dame, a girl after me own heart! I..I don't want to see her in some box, or roasted like a nug! I can think of her enough here at the Keep. No sense trudging all the way over Ferelden to attend Wynne's sodding funeral!"

Nathaniel guessed that Oghren was not taking the news very well. Even to the point of invoking his rages. He sighed softly.

"I'll tell the Commander." He rubbed the crease between his brows and walked up to the Keep, training dummy forgotten.

"Ser Nate, may I have a word?" Varel had come up to him closely and gestured for them to walk together back to the Keep's interior.

"What is it, Varel?"

"I am worried…about the Commander." The older man began, slowing their pace.

"I would guess that she is not taking this well?"

"Your insight truly astounds me, ser." Varel replied dryly, but sighed deeply afterward. "I apologize, it is just…she is not herself. I am most concerned."

"She has been amiss in her duties? I can take them up—"

Varel waves his hand in the air, and they stopped before Dworkin's area. "Arlessa Neria has finished all her duties. For the week. If grief is the price of manic efficiency…I would gladly do all the work."

Nathaniel found himself nodding solemnly in agreement.

"I ask for a favor, ser Nate. Talk to her. And if you can, accompany her to Kinloch Hold."

"Go with her? I'm sure she would not protest, and I would gladly agree, if I was not her second. I am needed here if she leaves."

"I am well aware of that, ser. But I think she needs you more than the Arling does. You will not be gone more than a week, if it is a funeral?" Varel looked straight into his eyes, and Nathaniel saw a paternal form of affection for Neria in them. It made him smile.

"But who will be in charge of the Wardens?"

At that moment, a happy voice cut their conversation short.

"Ah, another wonderful morning of freedom, isn't it Ser-Pounce-a-Lot? What shall we do today?" Anders suddenly appeared on the steps, rubbing noses with his pet cat while he descended. "Oh, hello, Nate, Varel, old chap, care to join us for breakfast? Would you like that, Ser Pounce? Varel and Nate eating some yummy with us? You'd like that wouldn't you, wouldn't you?"

Nathaniel and Varel looked at each other, then the seneschal nodded. "I will speak to Ser Sigrun, then."

* * *

When the dark-haired rogue had finally cleaned off the filth of his training earlier, he immediately made his way to the Commander's quarters, but just as he was about to knock, he realized she wouldn't be there.

A vision of her slender form highlighted against the sun passed before his eyes.

He lowered his hand, and made his was up to the highest battlement of the Keep.

He found her there, but instead of her feet dangling off the edge, which made her seem so carefree, playful and in complete danger, she sat hunched, hugging her knees to herself.

Now, she seemed so small, almost a child.

Once in a while, Varel managed to get her into a proper dress, especially when dealing with peasants and goodwives or farmers. It always made him smile, seeing her in something other than robes or armor. This was one of those times. She wore a deep purple, loose, flowing thing, cinched at the waist but flared in endless waves of fabric around her ribs and arms. It made her look like a delinquent princess. He thought Varel was seeking to spoil her while she was vulnerable this way.

Who knew the old man had such a good sense for timing and dresses.

He was about to call out to her, but thought better of it. For once, he had some inkling as to what could be going through her head, and he wanted to be of help to her. He did not know how, but he would try.

So he calmly sneaked up on her, walking cautiously, the balls of his feet first in each step until he stood behind her. She did not seem to notice him, or paid him no heed. She was not crying, but she was utterly silent. He could not even hear her breathe.

He slipped silently to her side, sitting on the ledge himself, his face turned to her fully.

"Hey, Nathaniel." She said, not surprised in the least, sparing but a glance. He was glad he did not startle her.

"Commander. I heard from Varel about your old mentor. I'm sorry." He lowered his voice, turning his eyes to the clouds on the horizon.

He heard her gasp softly, as if she was not even expecting him to know anything about Wynne's death, and it caught her by surprise. He was disappointed that she considered him so thoughtless and oblivious to her.

But his disappointment was dissolved by the gentle weight of her head as she released her knees and leaned lightly on his arm. It was a wordless form of thanks, and when he looked down, he saw her unruly red hair, and the color rang in his ears.

_She really is small, even for an elf…_

"What was your mother like, Nathaniel?" she asked quietly, her voice curious.

"I believe I had told you of her already in the Main Hall below her portrait." He replied, remembering the way her brows had knotted together curiously at his story about his mother and father. She did not look disbelieving back then, more confused as to how a man and his wife could compete in such a way.

"Tell me something nice about her." He heard her sigh. "Please."

Nathaniel paused, unsure how to continue, unsure if he could even think of anything nice about his mother. He swallowed, searching for her image, her voice, the way she smelled in his mind, something to detach his memory of her from the portrait in the Hall. Truly, it was the only thing that reminded him of her anymore.

"It…it escapes me at the moment, I apologize, Commander." He breathed out, looking down and shaking his head. She sighed again and this time he felt her shoulders sag. He was quick to recover. "But I have many things to tell about Adria."

"Your nursemaid?"

"Yes, it was she, in fact, who truly raised me." This time, the memories made him smile, a wistful pang coming to life inside his chest, full of love for someone lost.

"Somehow I really don't understand that. How noblewomen have other women take care of their own children." She raised her head from his arm, and looked at him quizzically. He saw her eyes, tired but still holding that same inquisitiveness and curiosity when not in battle.

"I do not understand it as well. But I am glad for it." He said, and for the first time that day, saw her smile, small and sweet.

"So, I shall rephrase, then," she began, and there was a lightness to her voice this time. "What was Adria like?"

This question, he could answer without hesitation, stories and stories, love and even more love laced in his voice as he tells her of the woman who raised him, who wiped the tears he could not stop, who beat him with a rolling pin but always held him tenderly after, who knew that he didn't like the crust with his bread, who was the only one who wept when he was sent to the Free Marches (no matter he was taller than her and a good few years over twenty), who was the only one who told him to hurry back, and he was happy that the Commander laid her head against his arm again while she listened.

"What was your mother like?" he asked, after he finished telling her how Adria packed for him before he was sent away, even after his protests and the knowledge that he had no clean smallclothes left.

"I don't remember her."

He felt the urge to smack his forehead against the nearest wall. Mage.

"But Wynne…" she added, her voice trailing off, cracking almost imperceptibly. "Wynne didn't raise me either."

"What was she to you?" he asked slowly, cautiously.

"She…she held my hand." At this, he heard her broken sob, and felt her head leave his arm again.

"I'm sorry…I shouldn't have asked." He turned to her and saw her head bowed, her palms open on her lap.

"No, I…I want to tell you about her too…" she shakes her head vigorously, her eyes screwed shut. "But before I get the words out it hurts too much I end up bawling like Oghren when he thinks of Branka."

He felt helpless. He had never dealt with any other grief than his own, and he slowly realized that she dealt with his grief magnificently, barely a week from meeting him, she was unflinching in front of his condescending stare and unhidden disdain, firm and pliant to his needs as if she read him like an open book and to top it all off, messianic in supplying him with a purpose.

He, on the other hand, could not even begin to know what this Wynne meant to her. And he had been fighting with her, living under the same roof as her for a year already.

He felt like a sod.

"I can hold your hand." He blurted out suddenly. "When you're ready to tell me, or even when you're not, I could hold your hand."

She looks at him, her mouth lax and her eyes threatening tears. "What?"

"You said she held your hand. I'll hold it, this time. Commander." He began to blush as he said this, he did not know why, it was absurd, and because he averted his eyes, he did not see the smile she had for him, the first full one since Irving's letter.

"Neria." She said, and settled again against his arm, her small hand resting gently in his palm. He held it as if it was made of glass.

"Commander?" his voice was rough and deep with emotion, the novelty of just holding her hand felt somehow significant for him. Never had she been so close to him as the day she had returned from the Dragonbone Wastes.

"If you want to hold my hand, you have to call me Neria." She whispered.

"Yes, Comman—I mean, Neria." She took her hand back and used it to wipe the tears from her eyes. Nathaniel watched her, feeling both relieved and bereft.

"Thank you, Nathaniel." Again, in the way that made it seem like she could see right through him, she patted his cheek. Having freshly shaved, he could feel the heat of her palm fully against his skin.

They stayed that way for a while, and if anyone came upon them, they wouldn't be able to say that it was the Warden Commander and her Second. Indeed, one would say that a tiny, red-haired girl was leaning against a tall, dark man, watching the clouds roll across the Amaranthine sky.


	3. Chapter 3

**Strange Light**

_All lore, characters and settings belong to BioWare._

_

* * *

_

**Chapter III**

Varel's face was an unreadable mask as he walked up to the battlements, knowing full well it was where the Commander had taken refuge after her duties had been completed. Then, his mouth set into a thin line, the seneschal took his time walking up the winding stairs to the top battlement, knowing the Commander was there. He did not hurry.

His hands behind his back, Varel was stopped by Captain Garavel, the soldier tense and upset, for reasons the seneschal was completely aware of. The older man directed the Captain to assemble the best of the Silver Order to the grounds in full plate and military formation. The Captain himself was to be present as well, in his best set of armor, to stand beside the Commander.

Captain Garavel nodded and hastened away to prepare.

Earlier, Varel had advised Mistress Woolsey to prepare a summer gown for the Arlessa, preferably the gift from Arl Teagan of Redcliffe. It was a deep purple gown of dramatic, black lace laid over soft, expertly-combed wool. Both he and Mistress Woolsey thought that the dark colors would make the Commander's skin look utterly supple; the voluminous sleeves make her hands appear more delicate than they already were; and the Empress-cut style, though old and outdated, would flatter her tiny frame, cinching just below her bosom and flaring out into exaggerated pleats that fanned out from her.

When the complacent (for once) Arlessa was let out of her rooms after Woolsey was done with her, Varel felt another surge of paternal affection, and almost wanted to hug the Commander. He was very good at suppressing that urge, of course, but it had never been such a struggle before.

Neria had smiled up at him, blue, fathomless, but tired eyes gazing up at the older man in shy reticence, an embarrassed flush on her cheeks and neck.

"You take advantage of my grief, seneschal." She had admonished him, but her tone was playful.

"Every opportunity I can, my Lady." He had bowed exaggeratedly, earning a girlish giggle and an approving smile from Mistress Woolsey.

Nothing could be done about the circles under her eyes, as she absolutely refused the rouge and kohl Woolsey had tried to ply her with, but the seneschal thought it was enough. Something new would distract her from her grief, and also gave him an opportunity to spoil her, for once.

Perhaps he would be able to do this more often.

Varel rounded a corner, nodding at the sentry stationed at the door leading to the top of the battlements, who stepped away and opened the heavy wooden door for him.

When the grey-haired man saw Ser Nathaniel and Arlessa Neria sitting next to each other, her head leaning against the dark rogue's arm, he sighed, shoulders slumping, utterly reluctant to do what he came up here for.

When the Commander sat up properly and shared a small, tinkling laugh with her Second, Varel groaned inwardly.

_My apologies, Commander. I wouldn't have disturbed you for anything less than this and another Blight._

Varel closed his eyes and shook his head before striding forward to prepare his Arlessa and her Second.

"Varel, you've been standing there for a full minute without saying anything. What's wrong?" the Commander was looking behind her, as well as Nathaniel, the rogue's eyes curious and wary. "There's plenty of room, have a seat."

He saw her pat the space next to her, and a smile lit her face up. She seemed much happier than she had been this morning, and he was grateful. But with this next bit of news he carried, he knew her mood would not last long.

_Maker take King Alistair and his unannounced visit._

_

* * *

_

King Alistair Theirin ignored Commander Kylon's calls for him to slow down, urging his horse to a fast-paced gallop. Just above the horizon, he could spy Vigil's Keep, the blue griffons emblazoned on the flapping banners atop its magnificent battlements. With each thud of the mount's hooves beneath him, the battlements loomed taller above the line of hills before him. He bent low on the horse, his face just astride the black stallion's mane.

Digging the spiked boots into the horse's side again, Alistair clutched the reins as tight as he could and tried to recall the contents of the last report from the Grey Wardens.

It had been nothing more than a few sentences, the reports arriving with more time in between one another and even less to say. The last letter only indicated that the fortifications were completed and that the Warden Commander had gained four new recruits, who were helping her rout the remaining darkspawn.

There were no more reports after that, and it had been his own messenger who had come back with unwritten news of the ruin of the Keep and that of Amaranthine City. That day, he wavered, more than he ever let on, forcing himself not to go to her.

He had been caught up in the struggle for restoration after the Blight, more than half the banns and arls in the whole kingdom clamoring for gold, for men, for resources that Denerim itself needed. When Alistair found out that even Vigil's Keep lay waste to darkspawn, he finally realized that the Blight had ravaged Ferelden like a starved wolf, and the country had come out of the ordeal with the fortitude of a half-eaten rabbit.

Just as was expected, with the demise of the Archdemon (at Loghain's hands, he thought wryly), the darkspawn fled, but surprisingly, not underground, and it was as if another Blight had begun, only this time, it had left Ferelden and had spread to the North, towards the Free Marches. The darkspawn were running, and were taking the Taint with them.

But they had lingered in Amaranthine. As if the Maker had guided it Himself, the reports to the Crown had indicated that darkspawn sightings and raids were concentrated around the said arling, the same arling which he had bestowed upon the Grey Wardens—upon _her._

He did not know whether to feel relieved or worried. Her wounds from Fort Drakon barely healed, only recently allowed to walk about the Palace, and already the Wardens from Weisshaupt had sent a long, lengthy missive detailing her duties as Warden Commander of Ferelden.

Somehow, that letter had managed to find itself into her hands, even as he had intercepted it, and by the time he had returned from a meeting with the banns, she was gone, scars, wounds, red hair, magic, silence and all. He had literally run to her room at the Palace, only to find Wynne sitting on the edge of the empty bed, her face in her hands. The old mage had looked up at him with tired and disappointed eyes, her face looking irreproachable.

Wynne didn't have to say anything. He saw the accusation, the disappointment on the healer's face. He knew it was petty of him, but he just could not bear to fight alongside Neria, much less Loghain. He would sooner run the old traitor through with Starfang than gut a Hurlock.

The old mage shared his sentiments about the Teyrn, and she of all people would know exactly as he felt, for she was there at Ostagar when the unthinkable happened, but she had kept on with Neria. He supposed it was out of a maternal form of affection or the fact that they were both mages, but only when Neria had left for Amaranthine did he understand that the older mage stayed with the younger because of faith.

It was faith which kept Wynne alive, and it was faith, steadfast and unwavering, that kept her on her path. Of course she was mad at Neria for giving the bastard another chance, but that did not let her forget the reason she joined their party, old, weary and living on borrowed time as she was.

Maybe that's what made the difference, and even though Alistair had grown up in the Chantry, he didn't have enough of it to see what Neria was trying to do.

"That girl," Wynne had begun, looking straight into his face while pointing to the bed behind her. He almost thought it was venom in her voice, but in the revisiting of the memory, he heard only pain. "That…little elven girl got up and walked out with a Knight while I went to check on Leliana."

"The guards told me. I swear, Wynne, on Duncan's soul, I didn't tell her anything. I planned to handle it myself." He had explained, but the mage waved his words off. He may not have supported her in the final battle, but he wasn't such a brute that he would shove her responsibilities into her lap without knowing she was completely healed.

"Did you know that it bit right through her? The teeth went through her lungs, her stomach and her uterus?" he heard tears on the edge of her voice. "I thought we'd—I'd lost her, and then that mad fool Loghain climbed up on it and made it spit her out…Then told me to patch her up and get her moving…Because...because…"

He had not been able to say a word, only listen, his heart clenching at the mention of her being in a dragon's mouth, his hands fisting at the mention of the Teyrn. Envy at being at her side at the end of it all consumed him, and he felt a hopeless despair rise up in him, knowing it would be something he would come to regret for the rest of his shortened life.

"Because she had to help him kill it. Said it was what they came here to do, and that he wanted her to see it. He said he wanted her to _**see him**__._" Wynne had thrown her hands in the air then.

"Did she?" Alistair had asked. He was still bitter, still very angry and hateful towards her, but he could not deny that he still loved her, and the thought that she almost died sent him reeling.

Wynne had paused, fingering a bloody bandage left on the floor, perhaps in Neria's haste it had fallen.

"She did. She was next to him when he struck the final blow. I healed her enough to stay awake, and he carried her over next to it. It wasn't moving much, but it was still alive. She let him use Spellweaver."

Something had clicked into place in Alistair's brain, which, for once, had managed to puzzle something out.

"But the bloody bastard died! If it wasn't moving, why did it kill him?" he had asked the old mage incredulously, his hands gesturing violently in the air.

"I don't know, Alistair. It was just the two of them. I don't know what happened. All I know was she could have died, carrying him down the Fort on her back like that. She was bleeding everywhere." Wynne's voice had dropped to a whisper then, and looked away, tears brimming at her lids.

The rest of that conversation bled away into distant memory, and when Alistair had stopped remembering, the road to the Keep became a fenced, beaten-down path, the half-reconstructed walls coming into view finally.

_Wynne. I'm here. I've come to get her._

His reverie had allowed him to let his tired horse slow, and just as he could see the guards stationed at the opening that used to be the Keep's gate, Kylon and Harrith were right behind him, their faces stern with fatigue and irritation.

"Nice of you to join me, gentlemen." He quipped, nodding curtly at them before easing his horse to a dignified, fast-paced trot towards the Keep.

"Your highness, you could have waited for us. We're here to escort you, you know." Came Kylon's dry reply, something Alistair found enormously entertaining. He had transferred and promoted the harried sergeant from guarding the Denerim market to his own personal guard, much to his own amusement and the man's complaints. Riding atop a chestnut mare, he looked much more suited to his position now, his breastplate of Dragonbone gleaming and polished. Alistair suspected it was the set_ Neria _had given him after the Blight.

"We could have run the Templars and your guards to a full gallop if you had wished." Harrith had added, rather cheerfully despite the hard ride, and Alistair was glad he had chosen him to be Knight Commander in Denerim. Surrounding himself with light-hearted, efficient, loyal people had become one of his policies since he had become King, and he supposed the two men beside him were responsible for keeping him sane until now. He trusted them completely, at times more than he trusted Eamon, especially in matters that concerned any form of serious change in the Fereldan system of governance.

They were hardly qualified to give him advice, but most often, their moral compass always steered him to decisions that let him sleep at night, instead of those that would quiet the banns around him.

"Come on, man, I just wanted to get here as quick as possible. I assumed you could have kept up." The King replied, chuckling softly just as the rest of the Templars and guards had caught up, a carriage trundling up behind them.

"Tell me why we're passing through Amaranthine again, your Majesty?" Kylon's sarcastic drawl feigned innocence. "The last time you were here, she wouldn't even look at you, as his Highness told me."

"His Majesty told _me_ that she chased him down the road with a lightning bolt in her hand." Harrith stared incredulously at the Commander of the King's Guard, amusement written all over his features.

"Really now? Was it cheese in front of His Majesty when he told you this? Or was it the damnable ale that horrid dwarf had brought from Orzammar?" Kylon had a pinched look on his face.

"Neither. It was Antivan. The ambassador was sitting with us, if I remember correctly." At this, an amused expression passed the Templar's face.

"I could have you both thrown into the dungeons for having fun at my expense you know." Alistair warned, waving a finger imperiously.

"By all means, your Majesty. I recommend Ser Perth take up my duties." Kylon quipped, knowing full well how the former Redcliffe Knight would hover over the King like a hawk. Alistair would never get any time for himself if Perth was in charge of his guard.

"I agree, my King, Knight-Commander Tavish would certainly be happy to act in my stead." Harrith added cheerily. Too cheerily, Alistair noted, knowing that the other Templar would smite any mage that merely breathed a mile from him, the Hero of Ferelden included.

Alistair merely shook his head, not bothering to reply to the two men he trusted to watch his back while he bickered with banns and argued with arls. With all his sitting around and eating through every meeting and Court session, he would be surprised if he wouldn't be able to skewer a darkspawn when he saw one.

The Royal retinue had finally come upon walking distance to the Keep, and he felt the silence descend upon him and the two armored men at his back like a damp blanket, each of them lost to thoughts of the elven girl who ruled the lands of Amaranthine.

* * *

"Not. A Single. Word." Neria gritted out, once she had emerged from her rooms, Mistress Woolsey standing right behind her, positively beaming. Anders and Oghren stood just outside the door, and when she had stepped out, the blond mage gave out a low whistle, while the dwarf chuckled under his mangy, braided beard.

"Ugh. Leave me alone. I'll meet you all outside." she groaned.

She strode down the hall with a purposeful step, the ridiculous boots the Warden treasurer (and by habit, her lady's maid) had forced upon her feet clicking on the stone floor, making her hips sway. The added height made her feel a little more ready for what was to come, but the way her gait differed made her unsure of herself.

It had ribbons. The bloody boots had ribbons. How was she supposed to walk around in these?

She had passed a mirror hung on a corner of the hall, and she spied herself for a moment on the flat glass. She groaned inwardly, seeing the ostentatious black lace and gossamer that fell about her in soft waves. The square neckline was lined with more of the delicate lace, skimming the tops of her breasts which were pushed up by the corset she had been tortured into underneath. A large, blood red band encircled her stomach and hips, fitting against her curves like a dark glove, layers upon layers of black, floaty, soft material flaring out and sweeping the floor. The arms flowed out identically to the hem, and on her fingers were glittering gems on useless bands of silverite.

Even her hair had been brushed, rather violently, and though it had been left to fall about her face, she felt it was too…arranged. Her hand came up to brush her bangs back towards her scalp, and she walked all the faster towards the Main Hall, her Wardens, Varel and Woolsey soon left far behind her.

"Commander! Commander!" Master Wade had run up to her, a black, velveteen pillow in his hands, upon which was resting an intricate band of dark, polished material. The bald man had all but shoved the pillow into her face, while a nervous, outraged Herren tried to pull his partner back.

"Master Wade! What is this?" Neria almost felt like shrinking before the item on the pillow. It was beautiful and intricate, no doubt, a thin, black, semicircular strip of metallic material interwoven with cleverly-hewn vines of the same source. Within the weave, tiny, muted scales seemed to be found, like dragon's skin beneath black, marble vines. In the center of this piece was a blood-red flawless ruby, no bigger than a man's fingernail but brilliant even from meters away. The item looked so painstakingly-crafted and delicate, Neria almost reached out to touch it.

"This, my lovely Commander, is you tia—" the smith was cut off by a hand clamped over his moustached mouth, and Herren stepped forward to complete the statement.

"Circlet, Commander." The other man finished, anxious and out of breath. "Our gift to you, for the restoration of the Keep. A circlet that would match your hair and your eyes."

"A circlet?"

"No, Commander, a tia—Herren, you brute!" Master Wade had managed to push Herren's hand away from his mouth, but was kicked in the shin before saying anything more. The shopkeeper glared meaningfully at the smith, and Neria saw the latter roll his eyes.

"Fine. Here, Commander, I made a _circlet_ from the spare Archdemon bones, Heartwood, and some scales you found. Hope you like it." The bald man all but pushed the pillow and the circlet into her arms, then stalked away, muttering under his breath.

"Please excuse Master Wade, Commander, he's…" as Herren searched for excuses for his partner's sudden foul mood, she saw Nathaniel approach, having changed from his shirt and breeches into the Blackblade armor they had found in the Wending Wood.

Nathaniel was rolling his shoulder as he approached, and with the armor newly-polished and cleaned, Neria thought it suited his pale skin and dark hair very well, the black-as-moonless-night leather clinging to his frame as if it was made for him. She smiled, remembering the talk they had up on the battlements, and she felt some of the anxiety leaving her just with his presence.

He looked suitably menacing, and she immediately decided he should stand right next to her when she went out to meet Alistair.

"Oh, I see Master Wade has finished your crown already." The rogue said as he saw the pillow in Neria's hands, and the elf suddenly looked at Herren with narrowed, suspiscious eyes.

"My…crown, you say?" she asked, clearly remembering how she expressed to Wade, Herren and Varel after the Mother's invasion that she didn't want one.

"Ye—no, Commander. Master Wade knew you didn't want a crown, I'd _never_ let him make you a crown, but he forced me, you know how he is, Commander. He told me, 'Well, Herren, if the Commander doesn't want a crown, I'll make her a tiara!'" Herren began to laugh nervously, and looked like a rabbit trying to escape.

"It's not really a crown or a tiara, I'd say it's more of a circlet." Nathaniel added helpfully, and Herren had begun to inch away.

"You knew about this?" Neria turned on Nathaniel this time, raising a delicate eyebrow. The rogue was unfazed or completely unaware of her aversion to such frivolity as a _crown._

"Right from the start. Master Wade had asked me what I thought would suit you." Nathaniel came forward to pluck the offending piece of jewelry from the pillow and held it against the firelight that emanated from the center of the Main Hall. Prismatic colors began to glisten on the dragonbone accessory, but it was muted, and flowed flawlessly into the polished shine of the black scales between the vines. The ruby carried a fierce, smoldering glow as Nathaniel held it up more, and Neria felt some sort of enchantment on the piece. "This is nice. I didn't know you could use scales like that."

"Its…very pretty, but…I don't want to wear a crown." She said, for once feeling like a spoiled girl being made to do something she didn't like, but if it was at all possible, she wanted to meet the King in full plate and feathered helm, a sword point between her and the monarch. Not in a black, flowing gown and a crown of all things.

Nathaniel laughed, his eyes dancing.

"You don't have to. Here," he smiled down at her, he towered over her almost as much as Anders did, the top of her head barely reaching his shoulders. He held the crown/tiara/circlet aloft, then instead of setting it on her head as it had rested on the pillow, horizontally, he pried the ends of the tiara open and slid them behind her ears. His gloved hands reached out again to arrange her hair, and Neria closed her eyes and cringed the whole time. "See, not a crown, just a headband."

"A headband?" her tiny hand came up to touch the crown lightly and adjust the way it fitted over her head and behind her ears. She felt the ruby just behind where her bangs began. "Really? I can wear it like this?"

Neria stepped away and pointed to the top of her head.

Nathaniel nodded, and Neria noticed how his eyes wandered from her head down to the tips of her boots, which peeked out from beneath her black gown. "Delilah used to ask me to help her put on hers that way."

"Oh. I see. Well, I guess that isn't so bad." She began to smooth her gown down her thighs and brush invisible lint off the arms. "How do I look, Ser Nate?"

At first the rogue was not able to reply.

"Is it that bad?" she asked. "Do I look menacing, powerful, fierce?" she truly hoped so, she wanted to be utterly in control of herself when she went out to meet Alistair. "Should I shoot lightning bolts out of my eyes?"

"Well, if you wanted that, maybe you should have worn your armor." Nathaniel somehow did not want to meet her eyes.

"Mistress Woolsey tied me down and gagged me just to get me into this thing. And I honestly have no idea how to get out of it." She gestured to her attire then heaved a sigh. "It's all the King's fault."

"Do you know why he has come?"

"To escort me to the Tower, most probably. He must be invited to the funeral as well. I don't see why he would even bother, he wasn't even interested in…" she trailed off, her eyes suddenly seeing something else, a memory of an old man twisting her heart in a vise. She shook it off. This was not the time to remember.

She crossed her arms and looked Nathaniel up and down, and she wished he had brought his bow or the daggers she gave him.

"But you look menacing enough. Stand next to me and..and do that thing with your face, okay?" she asked, knowing he could muster the most intense brooding glare she had ever seen on anyone, even darker than Sten's.

"That thing..with my face?" it was Nathaniel's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"You know, that look you give me when…" she tried to gesture with her hands. "Ugh. Remember the Mother? You do remember her, right?"

"I wish I didn't."

"Just…think of the Mother when you stand next to me, okay? Please?" she tilted her head sideways a little and thrust her lip out a bit more, something she learned to do back at the Tower when she wanted any of the Senior Enchanters to grant her a favor.

"You want me to face the King of Ferelden beside you and think of the Mother?"

"Yes. And if you don't agree I'll ask Anders to take you into the city on Satinalia."

"All right. You don't have to threaten me, Commander, I was just wondering. You seem rather nervous with meeting the King. Didn't he fight with you during the Blight?" the question prodded at her memories again, and her hand clenched at her side, for the want of mabari fur and a growl at Alistair's name.

"No, he didn't." she forced a smile, then turned away and began to walk towards the stairs leading down to the Courtyard.

* * *

a/n: Yes, I know, nothing much happened and my updates are slow. It's how I work .

Thank you for reading! Please leave a review, it helps me write faster. Really. It does.


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